


Alternate Beginnings

by mephistopheles



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Feels, I'm Sorry, M/M, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mephistopheles/pseuds/mephistopheles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a parallel universe, Frobisher and Sixsmith have never met.<br/>One day, something changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alternate Beginnings

A lonely man is sitting down in a café.  He has tea and a fresh newspaper beside him.  He is reading Kafka on the Shore, his fingers splayed to hold the volume up, but If on a winter’s night a traveler hides under his newspaper.  He sighs as the rain resumes overhead.  He is suddenly melancholic as a nice man in a fine waistcoat walks by.  His tea slowly grows cold and an old woman asks for the chair across from him.  He doesn’t know why he says no.  He rests the book on the table and looks out at the people.  No one stands out, no one is really smiling.  His glimmering watch displays the date.  The newspaper reads another.  A cute Frenchwoman walks by with napkins.  A loud man rocks his chair.  He pays for his check with cash.

He always thought that the sound of rain on an umbrella was a unique sound.  Nothing was ever quite like it.  The sun peers over its cloudy cover while he languidly walks down cobblestone lanes.  His neck hurts from sleeping in awkward positions and he tilts it until it touches his chest. 

Another man bumps into him.  He apologizes somewhat profusely but stops to stare at the man in front of him.  Something is so special, so familiar.  His curly dark brown hair and his deep set eyes looked right at him.  He knew that the other man must be thinking the same.  He knows that he’s going to be late for his train back to London.  Instead he takes the stranger’s hand and follows him.  His companion fails to light a cigarette in the pouring rain.  They head over toward the financial district and the upper class homes.  He is lead into a classical, Victorian home.  It is white and red and cherry oak, filled with the smells that embody fine homes.  There is no one walking about and the home seems very empty.  He peers into the one living room.  Sheet music is everywhere and a large piano is the focal point of the room.  He scurries back into the kitchen area and hangs up his coat before the other man can notice his absence.  He can smell tea brewing.  Not that he can smell it brewing, but he can’t smell any coffee or alcohol and tea kettles have that annoying hum that is distinctly theirs.  He runs his fingertips along the counter’s edge.  It’s cold like the rest of the house. 

The man walks by again and props himself up on a high chair.  He places a cup of tea in front of himself and offers the other.  They sit in moderated silence and drink their tea.  A cat runs past the bookshelf.  “Rufus Sixsmith.”  His ears prick up at the sound of a low baritone.  “Robert Frobisher, composer, tea connoisseur.”, the more unknown man states.  Rufus knows that this man is someone he will like.  He has always liked the intrigue of meeting unique people, this man more than most.  A clock chimes out five.  The other man questions what he does for a living.  “I am a scientist down in London, miniscule things are my forte.”  He knows that Robert is a composer and that question would be silly to ask.  Instead he begins, “I was in Tokyo a year ago, around this time…” 

Fifteen minutes later they’re on the couch in a not shabby room.  It’s comfortable and warm and Robert is wonderful company.  He’s close, leaning his delicate shoulder on Rufus’s.  They are face to face, inches apart.  Rufus smiles so Robert smiles, they pull apart once more.  It’s a complicated dance they do.  Robert hums a melody and pulls Rufus up once more.  They twirl about to a dusty ballroom that becomes elegant in their eyes.  They cannot dance complicated movements but they waltz with such grace that anyone who saw them would think them professionals.  The number comes to a close.  Robert runs to a forlorn piano.  He sits down and plays for Rufus.  It’s very soft at first, light, but as it goes it grows, slowly, becoming a beautiful mess of melodies.  It’s so simple, but so complicated.  He’s at one end of the piano one second and the other the next.  Rufus can see Robert’s love of the piano.  It’s something refreshing to see, Rufus thinks, as the piece decrescendos.  Robert’s fiery eyes catch his as the melody enlivens, building to a new high.  As he hits the last notes, Robert’s head rolls back and his eyes close, dropping to end the piece.  His smile is something different.

Rufus is dragged around the place.  It seems that Robert is more well off than he would like to appear.  He is awed by the fact Robert has and can play three instruments proficiently.  He uses four rooms daily, seven rooms weekly, and ten rooms any time measurement beyond that.  The other four rooms are locked up.  Robert offers Rufus a room.  Rufus accepts and settles in, despite the fact that his sister must be worried to death.  He asks to use the phone.  Robert grumbles, but he directs him to a new model.  He rings up his sister and tells her he’ll be a day or two and not to worry.  Robert comes and massages Rufus’s back.  “You know,” Robert starts, “I started what I think will be my masterpiece today, Sixsmith, because of you.”  Rufus smiles into the couch cushion.  The rain lightens up and his watch glimmers. 

The date is the twelfth of June, one thousand and thirty-one.

**Author's Note:**

> I may continue this! Yay! I only have a couple of things to add to this story. One, I know that it would be strange to have a large mansion but I'm supposing his parents died and left Frobisher this estate. Secondly, I imagine all of his songs to be composed by Ludivico Einaudi, his masterpiece being "Divenire". Lastly, June 12th is the date Frobisher commits suicide in the book.  
> Thank you for reading.  
> Have a wonderful day.


End file.
